Clean
by madame.alexandra
Summary: Han's struggle with his carbonite detox adds a new dimension to the intimacy of his relationship with Leia - and it's got nothing to do with sex. ROTJ - post escape from Jabba's Palace.


_a/n: love's gross. insp. by my faithful readers/tumblr-ers._

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 ** _Clean_**

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The hyperspace haul from Tatooine to the outskirts of Sullust was fated to be one fraught with tensions and uncertainty – with injuries and recovery to tend to, it wasn't meant for peace – and despite the _Falcon_ carrying essentially the same amount of people away from Mos Eisley as it had carried to the sordid outpost – it felt _crowded_.

It was Lando Calrissian who made the ship feel so congested – and despite the gratitude Leia felt towards him – she called it gratitude, as his grueling work to help her free Han hadn't indebted her to him as much as it had relieved him of a debt he owed her – despite that, she nursed a guilty resentment towards him –

She wanted Han alone, not Han with another man lurking in the cockpit, assuming his space while Han slept fitfully in the cabin, rescued, but still incapacitated, not quite ready to fly, grappling with the lapse of time and the rapid shifts of allegiance –

Leia tried not to think of Lando, awake and roaming the _Falcon_ just outside the locked cabin door – she felt anxious, shutting herself in here with Han, with someone outside her circle around to witness it, to be privy to it – Threepio and Chewbacca, they hardly counted; they had weathered the crawl to Bespin – Luke wouldn't have mattered much; he understood the depth of her feeling for Han –

Yet somehow, Lando _knowing_ , Lando watching her shut the cabin door, Lando being cognizant of her crawling into bed with Han – it made it feel public, and official; something Leia hadn't quite experienced yet – with her and Han, it had all been solitude and paradise, privacy beyond any she could have imagined, until it all crashed down in ionized smoke and carbonite.

She wasn't interested in hiding her relationship with Han; she wasn't ashamed of him – that wasn't it at all; her anxiety was something she couldn't quite define – perhaps it felt like – it felt as if – well, now she had Han back, and Lando hadn't thought twice about her sharing his cabin – Leia suspected that from his point of view, it was inevitable; of course a pretty girl was sharing Han's cabin, but perhaps it was thinking of it from Lando's point of view that scared Leia.

It had been six months – and prior to that, sheer weeks of intensity, but did all that add up to a lasting relationship, or would all of this fizzle into just an affair that had happened by circumstance, on the way to Cloud City –

No; but when she'd kissed him in Jabba's Palace, he'd clung to her so tightly, she knew in her bones that it would never be just an affair.

Tired, and aching – sore with sunburn and metal-scraped, raw skin, Leia sat up lazily in Han's bunk, attending to him – she was exhausted, but her attention on him was sharp; in the back of her mind, she counted down the hours to Sullust, but at the forefront of her thoughts was his well-being –

He was soaked in sweat and feverish, sleeping fitfully as if he had some sort of ravaging flu. His eyesight was still spotty – _blurry_ , he called it, _swimming_ , he'd groaned, keeping his eyes closed.

She worried for him, and she barely knew what to do – the rickety old med scanners on the Falcon had no conceptual framework for a person encased in carbonite; they merely kept reading, vaguely, that – _subject has been exposed to poison – run antibiotics and system cleanse on subject –_

Leia did as the med equipment instructed; provided the right medication, soothing for his unhealed injuries, gave him hydration, intravenous fluids, and Han still – he just _struggled,_ and in a rudimentary way, she compared it to the nasty way she'd once seen an alcoholic toss and turn on the second day of withdrawal during an intense detox.

He had been so out of it, as she and Chewbacca calmed him down during the takeoff from Tatooine; as they had explained the past few months, given him context for everything, and Han had gone from quiet listening, to angry, irritated questions too quickly for them to keep up.

He only seemed to settle when Leia pulled him behind a closed door and gave him a moment to breathe, on his own – and that's when she'd seen how sick he really was.

He mumbled in his sleep now, his jaw tense with misery, and Leia did her best to soothe him with a cool palm to his forehead, or her leg pressed gently against his. He seemed unable to stay awake, but unable to get rest – throwing off a six-month habit of forced hibernation must indeed be like suffering withdrawal, and looking at his pale, translucent skin – the dark circles under his eyes –

It hurt her, and she felt only mildly better when a touch of her fingers to his neck, to feel his pulse, or her voice in his ear, whispering – _Shhh, Han; shhh; it's Leia_ – seemed to calm him in his unrest.

She stretched out next to him, curling up – he was so feverish she had the temperature in the cabin down as cool as it could go for comfort, and she shivered, pressing her body against his – his skin was sweaty, slick and hot – it had a clammy sick feel to it, but it gave her some warmth, and though a faint, logical part of her thought it might be considered, to put it bluntly, _gross_ to snuggle up against his fevered skin for comfort, another part of her whimsically thought she might be able to draw the discomfort out of him and bear it herself.

Han jerked around in the grasp of a nightmare and she squeezed his arm, whispering in his ear again. Her eyes fluttered – physical exhaustion was hard to resist, at this point, even though mentally she hated to abandon her watch over Han – but sleep would do her good, and it would do him good if she was well-rested to be there for him.

She ran her hands over him gently, lulling herself to sleep with the rhythm of touching him; she turned on her stomach and lay next to him with a sigh of relief, basking in his presence – he'd get better, and she'd have him back for real, _truly_ –

"Han," she murmured –

She faded into an alert, half-sleep – then was sucked into a suffocating slumber that disoriented her, it was dreamless, but she was no longer aware of Han next to her, or of where she was –

She heard coughing, she felt the violence of motion next to her – a knee jamming into hers, sheets sliding off of her; she heard what sounded like – raw choking, and Leia struggled to open her eyes, her stomach lurching—

"Han," she said aloud, suddenly sitting up clumsily, her skin crawling, and wet – she'd fallen asleep, she hadn't meant to –

She blinked a few times, trying to figure out what had shocked her out of that disconcertingly deep sleep, and she looked down and realized Han was on his side next to her, his head hanging in his hand, and he seemed wildly disoriented.

Leia turned, grabbed his shoulder, and then looked down at her shoulder – the front of the shirt she was wearing, her shoulder – _had she gotten sick?_ She felt the burn of a blush against her neck and face – _I always wake up before I vomit_ – she stared to think faintly.

Han's back tightened – seized almost, and Leia crashed into the reality of the moment with such clarity that it was alarming – sirens went off in her head –

 _Not me, Han – he's choking._

She gave a sharp, strangled gasp – and she was awake; more alert than she had been since stumbling off that stolen skiff for the safety of the _Falcon_ at the old Lars farm –

"Han!" she shrieked, her jaw tightening.

She shifted to her knees in a swift, sharp movement, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him.

He barely budged, half asleep, and coughing harshly.

"Roll over," she gasped, rudimentary medical knowledge screeching around in her head – _he can't throw up when he's asleep, he'll choke_ – and she pushed at him, looking up and around. "Han, turn over, turn _over_!" she shouted.

She got up, wincing as she scrambled over him – her feet hit the floor, and after a quick moment of indecision, she darted to the door and slammed her palm on the unlock button, about to scream for Chewie –

Ahhh, of course; Lando was standing there – must have heard her shouting.

A wince crossed her face, a look of grim acceptance that this was how it was going to be – he gave her a surprised, but concerned look, his eyes flicking over her attire – she wore only undergarments, and Han's shirt, and her hair was only in a loose braid – but Lando looked over her not with any sexual interest, but with startled confusion.

"He's too heavy for me," Leia said, stricken.

Lando nodded and came in. He looked at the tangled mess of sheets on the bunk, and then glanced at Leia's shirt. Leia crossed her arms and followed Lando to the bed – Han was sitting up though, shocked into alertness as badly as Leia had been, and he held his hand to the back of his mouth, a sour look on his face.

Leia flew past Lando and knelt down in front of him, rising up to touch his face.

"Easy, hotshot," she soothed. "Lando," she said shortly. "Can you get him some water?"

Lando nodded.

"You – uh, want a towel?" he asked, half in a mutter. "You've – ah, got," he started to explain.

Leia nodded without looking back at him. She was more concerned about Han's respiratory tract, and his peace of mind, at the moment, than she was concerned about the fact that he'd gotten sick on her.

Han cradled his head in his palm and groaned.

"It's alright," Leia said softly, touching his neck with both hands. "Han, it's alright."

He lurched forward, and Leia tried to keep him sitting on the edge of the bunk.

"Sit still," she said.

Han shook his head. He clenched his jaw.

"Sit, Han," Leia repeated aggressively.

"Room's spinnin'," He managed finally.

"Yes," she tried, "but if you sit – "

He tore her hands away from his shoulders.

"Fuck, Leia, 'm gonna be sick," he growled harshly, and she winced – "don't want you screamin' at me again – " he managed.

Stressing over him, Leia was trying to push his hair back and get his attention, and so she ignored his very real pronouncement that he was going to be sick. She had stood, and was leaning over him, as he ducked his head and vomited again and she thought, stoically - _well, it's the floor this time; better than the sheets_ – and she tried not to think at all about her bare feet and the mess.

"Here," Lando said gruffly, shoving a towel at Leia, and a glass of water at her – he reached out to clap Han on the shoulder, and push Han's head back, looking at his eyes sharply. "Hey, pal, you want to take it into the 'fresher?" he asked lightly, gently moving Leia as he stepped up to help haul Han to his feet. "She's already too good for you, and you're gonna subject her to this?"

He sounded cheerful, but Leia shot him a nasty look, abandoning the towel he'd given her – she dropped it on the floor near the mess, and followed Lando with the glass of water.

Han shook Lando off and knelt at the sani, resting his elbows haphazardly on the edge. He ducked his head, the back of his neck red and covered in a thin sheen of sweat – and Leia pushed her way around Lando.

She pushed her hair back, her face a stony picture of composure even as she realized Han had gotten her there, too – Land gave her a somewhat sympathetic, apologetic look, and Leia cleared her throat, keeping herself together.

"The sheets – will you throw them in the auto valet? Or – ah, ask Threepio, to clean up – "

"Yeah, I'll take care of it," Lando said quickly. "Hey, let me send Chewbacca in here and you can – er, clean up – "

Leia shook her head, pushing forward a little to usher Lando out – she gave him a determined look, swallowing hard.

"No, I'll stay," she said firmly. "I'll take care of him. Just – the sheets, make sure – "

"Sure thing, Leia," Lando agreed.

She hustled him out, and she felt a twinge of – not embarrassment, but a sense of violation? – at the idea of Lando touching the sheets she shared with Han; it seemed so callous, so public, and a part of her balked at it – she was still half-lost in their solitary trip to Bespin, a no-man's land of romance –

Han clutched the back of his hair and committed into the sani, his shoulders heaving painfully, and Leia dropped to her knees next to him, pushing her heavy hair behind her shoulder.

She rallied herself; their fairytale time was gone – this was real.

She reached out to loosen his fingers from his hair, replacing them with her own, soft and soothing.

"It's some kind of carbon poisoning," she said softly. "I think it'll run its course – like your eyesight."

Illness was scary, and she had no real answers, but she tried to provide comfort.

Han groaned, mumbling a few swear words. He lifted is head a little, and Leia tried to offer him the water. He resisted for a moment, heaved forward again to empty what was left in his stomach, and then sat back on his heels heavily, grudgingly accepting the water.

He rinsed his mouth out; spit into the sani, and sat back again – and he didn't look at her.

She gazed at his profile, well aware that the red hint to his neck and face now had nothing to do with the fever – rigid anger lay there in his jaw, and not at her – at least, she sensed it wasn't anger at her – at himself, and she understood it – she'd have been mortified, beyond herself, if she'd gotten sick on him.

She tried to think of what she'd want, in that situation, and as she stared at him, his words echoed loudly in her memory – _don't want you screamin' at me again!_ He'd sounded raw and nettled, defensive, and she realized in his haze he must have assumed she was throwing a fit because –

"Han," she ventured gently, still looking at him intently even as he stared away. "I wasn't screaming because you were sick on me," she said softly. "I thought you were choking on it."

She swallowed hard, and took a deep breath, crawling over towards him on her hands and knees.

"I thought you were choking," she repeated hoarsely, her voice trembling. "I was scared."

She reached out to touch his shoulder, and his muscles jumped tensely, tightening nervously under her touch. He turned his head slightly, and grimaced. She tilted her head to catch his eye, determined to show him it wasn't going to send her running.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

He made a low, scathing noise of disbelief.

"I threw up on you," he growled tensely, as if that should explain it all. "Leia – fuck, Sweetheart, I'm – "

She shook her head, running her hand through his hair.

"It's okay, Han," she murmured gently. "It's okay."

He shook his head roughly, and Leia knelt up next to him, handing him the glass of water again.

"Drink," she instructed.

He did, avoiding her gaze, and Leia watched him swallow, taking another deep breath after a moment.

"It's not the worst thing that's ever happened to me," she said dryly.

It seemed, for a moment, like he wouldn't budge, and then he did, cracking a little, and giving her a grim, grudging smile. Leia smiled back gently, and rested her hand on his back.

She stood up gingerly, and listened, for a moment – she heard sounds in the cabin; Threepio, or Lando – or both – cleaning up. She cleared her throat, turned, and flicked on the cool water in the 'fresher, slipping the soiled shirt over her head.

She dropped it aside casually and beckoned to Han, giving him her hand and holding tightly as he stood up. He winced – his muscles ached from lack of use, sore and protesting all of this movement, and Leia pointed him into the water, holding onto his hand tightly. When she was sure he wouldn't fall, she stepped back, and slipped off her underwear, stepping in there with him – and her intentions, as well as his, lacked lust – he needed some kind of relief for his dizzying fever, and she wanted to wash off the stress, and to keep her watch on him – she shouldn't have fallen asleep the first time.

She unbraided her hair and let the water soak into it, unflinching as she reached for some soap – Han fumbled, trying to get it for her.

"Here let me – look, it's my fault," he stammered, his face flushing. "Fuck," he swore again, his voice hitting a fault line, almost a crack, and Leia's heart went out to him.

She gently knocked his hand away, shaking her head.

"Han, I love you," she said calmly.

She wasn't sure she'd said it again – not to him, not personally, not like this – since Bespin.

He looked winded, struggled to breathe for a moment, and she started to lather soap over her, nodding at him gently.

"Hey," she said, her voice soft and coaxing. "It's nothing," she soothed. She lifted one eyebrow, her expression dry – "I'd rather you vomit on me than ever wear that metal bikini again," she quipped.

Han groaned, his eyes closing heavily. He leaned back against the cool 'fresher walls, and Leia thought of the first time he'd taken her in here, with hot water and steam, her back in that narrow corner, thighs around his waist, his lips on her neck, murmuring her name to a rhythm inside her –

She took a deep breath, and stepped closer to him, starting to lather up his shoulders, running her palms over his skin.

"It's okay," she murmured to him again, sincere and soft.

Han sighed heavily, resignation surging through his muscles as they relaxed under her touch. He reached out for her, pulling her close – holding her still against him for a moment, and that's when she realized –

"Han," she mumbled into his chest, her mouth moving against his soaking wet shirt. "You're still wearing clothes."

Han grunted in surprise and she stepped back, biting back a laugh. Hands shaking, she helped him get out of those – and carelessly left them wet in the bottom of the 'fresher – extract traction, if he got dizzy again, and needed a less slick place to stand.

She started laughing quietly, and Han ran his hands through her damp hair warily, trying to see with his own eyes if it was clean – he felt a rush of blood to his face again, and Leia caught that look of shame creeping into his eyes –

"Stop it," she warned.

He shook his head.

"You're a goddamn princess, Sweetheart," he groaned. "Can't have had anyone throw up on you before."

Leia snorted a little, tilting her head.

"A little cousin," she corrected wryly. "He was two."

Han groaned again, and Leia placed her hands on his chest. She smiled, and again, she said –

"I'd still take it over the dancing girl costume."

Han thought there was too much heaviness behind that statement; he didn't want to make a joke of it. He slid his arm around her waist and tucked his head down to kiss her forehead lightly.

"Lando know you're in here with me?" he asked warily.

She nodded.

"You okay with that?" Han ventured.

Leia took a deep breath, reflecting on all that had gone through her head – her fear that this relationship would be unable to go forward, that they'd been ruined by the carbonite, or they'd be ruined because they wanted different things – that reality, and existing in a world outside of sub light travel, would mean an end to this thing they harvested on an interstellar sojourn.

Those fears, now – they seemed unfounded.

"Han," she breathed quietly, "I love you," she repeated.

Han rested his arms over her shoulders – _rested_ them on her, drawing strength, and that was a good feeling for her; he relaxed, he trusted her care, and she felt him ease up on himself, as a little of his embarrassment faded away. She pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

"Started all this – kinda messy, didn't we?" Han mumbled sheepishly – broken ship, failed safe haven, fighting each other tooth and nail, carbon poisoning – kriff, he hadn't had a single chance to treat her like the high class woman she was –

"No," Leia shook her head softly; cool water dripping down her hair. She rubbed his neck lightly. "It's clean."

He was – and their relationship was – the cleanest thing in her life, really; despite the disorder all around them.

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 _-alexandra_

 _story #354_


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